


Falling In and Out of Love

by haveloved



Series: The Way It Hurts [1]
Category: The OC
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haveloved/pseuds/haveloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe when you're with 'em? You meet and neither one of you even knows what hit 'em?"</i> Marissa Cooper's drawn to Trey Atwood like a moth to a flame, but their drunken, desirous relationship quickly becomes something nightmarish...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling In and Out of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prequel to my AU fic _The Way It Hurts_. It will cover the beginning of Marissa and Trey's relationship, and how Trey begins abusing her, leaving her in the place we find her in _A Mark, A Brand, A Scar_ (already up) and _The Way It Hurts_ (forthcoming). Most (or all) of this is for the LJ challenge community _un_love_you_ ; this chapter is for prompt #21, _you'll do_. The content will gradually worsen into physical violence, verbal abuse, and rape, so I'm implementing the most massive of trigger warnings. I make no claim to the lyrics I quote at the beginning of each chapter, and I in no way condone the type of behavior I illustrate here.

Falling In and Out of Love

I.

 _“Should’ve known you were trouble from the first kiss…”_

She told herself to get used to it—smoke stinging her eyes, the smell of it making her fingers twitch with the desire for nicotine. She used to smoke to keep her weight down, but there’s no need for that now. Still, she wanted to quit. She wanted to shake off every remnant of her modeling days and go back to really _living_ —actually being able to eat something, or go out without having to worry about coming back early in order not to be wrecked for a shoot the next morning.

She was wearing her best top—sequined, dark purple, backless, held to her only by a few strands of a floss-like material. A backless top meant no bra, and she couldn’t say anyone seemed to mind. Her chest, her hips in the tightest jeans she owned, dirty blonde hair long and loose—she was netting quite a few drinks from men old enough to be her father. She would have been grossed out, but nothing shamed her anymore. It was hard to shame Marissa Cooper, failed lingerie model, launcher of a thousand fetishes. A few free drinks earned by showing off her breasts were much better than the things some guys out there were undoubtedly doing with her modeling spreads.

Tequila had left her in a pleasant haze, shots of Patrón and José Cuervo knocked back one after another, making her dizzily, dazedly numb. She got used to seeing the bartender’s hand plunking them down in front of her, could even recognize it through her intoxication. So when another hand appeared, she looked up, her eyes trailing up the arm and holding out the proffered drink, landing on a guy with ruffled brown hair and a certain rugged look—stubble, forest green t-shirt, khaki pants.

 _You’ll do_ , she said to herself, giving him a second once-over. She liked it—very, very much.

“Who are you?” she practically purred, taking the glass from his hand but not drinking just yet.

He smirked, reaching for the salt. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

She raised her eyebrows, running her tongue along her lips. “That goes both ways. What’re _you_ looking for?”

He stepped closer, brushing his right hand along her spine, playing with the barely-there bits of string holding her top together. “Somebody like you,” he breathed into her lips, hot and close, smelling like whiskey and desire and possessiveness.

“I think we can reach some kind of agreement,” she replied, equally soft, and somehow they could hear each other perfectly over the bar’s loud music. “So ‘re you gonna give me that salt?”

He licks the side of his hand and pours the salt, holding it out to her mouth. Her tongue messily traced the salted area and past it, teeth scraping at skin before she drank the shot, then bit into the lime he handed her.

He poured another shot and they fell into the same routine, except this time, she stopped licking his hand and tilted her face up to his, twining her fingers clumsily in his hair and pressing him tight against her, lips meeting his, fevered and drunken, all tongues and alcohol and salt. She felt nothing but her fingers in his hair, his hands creeping past her waist and down. Nothing but a haze of tequila and desire.

“You’ll do,” he murmured into her lips, and that was what clinched it—the same words that had run through her mind just before, not even three minutes ago.

So she pushed the kiss even further, just _knowing_.

It was gonna be good.


End file.
